


don't make it weird

by weatheredlaw



Series: from this galaxy to the next [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Mass Effect Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night the salarian comes down to the bar and buys a drink. Grif’s starting to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't make it weird

**Author's Note:**

> sort of sequel to "sic semper something". i love this universe.

Every night, the salarian comes to Chora’s Den – in plainclothes, Grif knows he’s C-Sec, but there’s not point in making anyone nervous – and buys a drink. And every night, he pretends that he doesn’t hear when Grif asks how things are up top, or if it was a bad beat. He pretends that he doesn’t notice that sometimes his third drink is on the house, or that Grif just doesn’t charge him at all.

Well. It’s either he’s pretending not to notice, or he’s a colossal moron. At this point, it’s hard to tell. What with all the _not speaking_.

Tonight, Grif leans forward and, before the salarian can even order, says: “Are you ever going to tell me your name? Or am I going to have to blackmail someone around here?”

The officer looks up, blinking his wide eyes before narrowing them in Grif’s direction. “Blackmail is illegal,” he says bluntly.

“No shit.”

The salarian scowls. “It’s Simmons,” he says.

“Aw, there we go. See? Not so hard.” He extends a hand. “I’m Grif.”

Simmons snorts. “You must spend a lot of time with your human counterparts.”

“It’s the Citadel. We’re all spending a lot of time with our human counterparts.” Simmons still doesn’t take his hand, so Grif pulls it back and puts it to good use making him a drink. “You never answer my questions.”

“You’re a bartender. Your questions are filler.”

Grif snorts. “Right. Filler in a place with dancing girls and a bass loud enough to crack bones.” He slides the salarian’s drink across the bar. “This one’s on the house. You have a nice night.” He turns to check on someone down the length of the bar. Simmons is quiet.

Typical.

 

* * *

 

They go back to their usual mode of communication, except Grif stops asking questions. Wouldn’t want to crowd the poor guy’s brain with all that useless _filler_ , is what he keeps thinking. He’s so peeved about it that he’s been planning on saying something _else_ , something like, _you know you’ve kinda got a stick up your ass_ , but maybe more eloquent – but who is he kidding he’s Dexter Grif, terrible turian, mediocre bartender, he has zero concept of eloquence –

And then, one day, Simmons doesn’t show.

Grif turns around at the usual time, but the salarian’s usual spot in the bar is empty. He stares at it, for quite a while, until an asari fills the seat and orders a round of beers for her friends. Grif makes a noise and starts popping caps, puts them all on a tray and follows her out to the table. He entertains, makes some extra cash that night, and closes out the register after two. Chora’s Den never _really_ closes, but at some point Grif gets to go home, sprawl out on his bed, and completely pass out.

It takes him a little longer to fall asleep this time around.

 

* * *

 

After a week, he starts to worry.

Grif doesn’t usually ask important questions to the C-Sec guys who come in here. Frankly, they’re not the easiest to deal with. They get a lot coming in and asking questions anyhow when they’re on duty, so when it’s just time to relax and have a beer or two with the guys, they don’t have much interest in chatting up the turian behind the bar.

Which is why the human in the seat that _should_ be filled by Simmons probably looks like he wants to pull off Grif’s _faceplates._

“Why the hell would you care about _Simmons?_ ”

The only human Grif regularly talks to from C-Sec is Church, and considering _that_ , he’s a little thrown off by the guy’s tone. Grif raises a hand.

“Meant nothing by it. It’s just he’s a regular down here. I work this bar every night. When people go missing, it’s usually not a _good_ thing.”

The human snorts. “Yeah?” He drains his glass and stands. “Well if I see him, I’ll be sure to let him know you’re _worried._ ”

Grif exhales. “Don’t make it weird, man.”

“No, no. I’ll make sure I communicate exactly how normal this is to him. Really make you sound nice and casual.”

Sometimes, the bar’s zero-tolerance policy on punching patrons in the face can be a real fucking _drag._

 

* * *

 

Another week goes by. No word gets back. The human he talks to never looks his way again, and Church isn’t reliable enough to come by and actually have information. The one time he shows up, he’s got some quarian with him, because Church is always on the cusp of trouble, always right there where things could get messy, so Grif hangs back.

It’s been two weeks since Simmons sat at his bar and brooded, the two silently contemplating the chasm between them, filling with EDM and flashing lights. Two weeks since Grif thought of something clever to say about small talk and whatever else Simmons seems to hate, which is probably _everything._

After two weeks of this, he decides he’d rather go back to having Simmons sit in his chair, drink his beer, and pretend Grif isn’t talking to him, so the morning before his shift on Friday starts, he goes down to C-Sec to do something about it.

The girl at the front desk is nice enough, but not exactly helpful. She has no idea who Simmons is, and goes to fetch someone who maybe _does._

That someone turns out to be Church.

“Man, what are you doing down here?”

The plates around Grif’s mouth flare. “What happened to Simmons?”

Church blinks. “You know Simmons?”

“Sort of.”

“Ugh, what does that even mean?”

Grif huffs. “Can you just _tell me?_ ”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you. He’s _inside._ He hasn’t missed a day of work since he started.” Church pauses. “…You wanna talk to him?”

Grif blinks.

Simmons is…fine.

He’s alive. He’s fine. Nothing weird happened. No comas were involved or anything shitty like that.

The only shitty thing happening is that Simmons has stopped coming to the bar, stopped being a weird, sullen presence in Grif’s life, and the second it started happening, Grif threw an internal hissy fit, started pestering human C-Sec officers, and actually _walked down to C-Sec HQ_ to find out what had happened –

And it turns out, Simmons has just been living his life, and Grif was never even a part of it to begin with.

So. There’s that.

“No,” he hears himself say. “No, I’m good. Just…pretend I wasn’t here.” He tugs on his shirt and walks away.

Church calls out from behind him, “You’re making it weird, Grif!”

“Fuck you, too!” he says, and slides into the elevator to the lower wards, just before it closes.

 

* * *

 

“Did you come looking for me?”

Grif jumps and spills the drink he was making. He’s picked up someone’s afternoon shift and it sucks.

“ _Fucking_ —” Simmons looks amused as Grif cleans up the drink, makes another, and takes it to the other side of the bar. “What the hell do you want?”

“You came looking for me. I wanted to know why.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Simmons scowls. “You’re not going to explain yourself then? You make all this effort to talk to me for months on end, and then I’m gone for a few days—”

“ _Two weeks_ ,” Grif snaps. “You haven’t been in here for two weeks. I thought…something had happened.”

“Like I’d died?”

“I don’t know, man, alright? C-Sec is weird, the Citadel is weird, I was just, like, overreacting. I guess. It doesn’t matter.”

_Don’t make it weird, man._

Simmons smiles. “You were worried about me.”

“Yes,” Grif snaps. “I thought that was sort of obvious.”

“You sort of _like_ me.”

“Yep. I am fond of your presence.”

The salarian _laughs._ It’s…an interesting sound. “So what is it, then? Why did you want to know where I was?”

“Does it matter?”

Simmons nods. “It does to me.”

Grif sighs. “Look. I work here every night. I try talking to you _every night._ I talk to everyone every night. And I had this whole thing planned where I’d tell you that I thought you were a conceited asshole because you thought I was trying to fill the dumb space of this dumb room or whatever, but actually I do sort of care about everyone I meet, I am trying to work through the literal year of emotional repression that sort of come along with my species, and you order the same drink every single night. So, yeah. I wanted to know more about you, and instead, you fucked off, and now you’re acting like it wasn’t a big deal. So. Yeah. Whatever, I guess.”

_Don’t. Make. It. Weird._

Simmons is quiet. He settles into a seat and stares at the glass top of the bar before he says quietly: “I stopped coming because I thought you…wanted it that way. I’ve been drinking somewhere else.”

“Ugh, at one of those nasty clubs upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“You downgraded.”

“Considering I went up in an actual elevator, I have to disagree.”

“Altitude has nothing to do with quality.”

Simmons snorts. “So where’s the best bar in the Citadel then?”

And without a beat, Grif says, “My place.”

They both go completely silent.

There’s no music to fill the air between them, and Grif’s the only one on duty at twelve in the afternoon. It’s just them and a couple of alcoholics, who are too deep into their cups to notice.

Grif swallows. “I just…I make. Good drinks.” Simmons nods. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was stupid. You can drink wherever you want, I don’t care.” He takes a rag and wipes at nothing.

Eventually, Simmons says, “You wouldn’t make me drink your dextro stuff, would you?”

Grif feels his plates shift a little, pretty much everywhere, and he straightens. “No. I can make something you’d like.”

Simmons nods. “Alright. You just…tell me when. I’ll check out the best bar in the Citadel.”

“Tomorrow. I have the night off.”

Simmons smiles. “Right. Tomorrow, then.” He stands and watches as Grif scribbles down his apartment location, and takes the little cocktail napkin with slender fingers. Grif swallows thickly. “Tomorrow,” Simmons murmurs, and looks up. “It’s a date.”


End file.
